Post-Zeitgeist

Thursday, 18 August 2016

It must be summer. How do I know? I've had time to read comics. Thanks to the trio of wonders that are rss feeds, torrent magnets and coincidence, I was introduced to Tim Seeley and Jim Terry's Sundowners. A comic about a group of damaged people with various mental illnesses who all share the same affliction - they each believe they are super heroes. For several years, I have nurtured an unfair prejudice against any comic with superheroes or space... which narrows the available selection significantly.

The explosion of superhero movies, particularly the Marvel brand has done considerable damage to my motivation to read these books. Seeing your favorite heroes on screen is a real thrill but it comes with a hangover: a whole cast of zeitgeisting faces to haunt every page, old or new. Sure, I like Benedict Cumberbatch. I enjoyed his work in Sherlock and think he makes an adequate Stephen Strange. An adequate Stephen Strange.

Well, would you look at that: searching for "Doctor Strange" on google images forces you to scroll through nearly ten pages of Cumberbatch photos, deviant art tributes and digitally colored modern Strange before getting to a single Ditko image.

Along with Peter David era Hulk, the doomed 2099 reboot of Ghost Rider and Chris Claremont's late 80s vision of the X-Men, Doctor Strange rates among my all time favorite Marvel titles. So seeing Strange on screen is to be frank, sad... Psychedelia reduced to CG, an homogenized occult reduced to an intersection of wikipedia and memes and the dilution of gorgeously pompous and verbose language, streamlined into audience winking soundbites... it all weighs too heavy. All of which says nothing of the movie's actual quality and speaks only of this writer's peculiarities.

Of course, I am aware that this is supposed to be about Sundowners but the world really needs to be Stranger... and well, isn't that the point, Mr Seeley?

As for Sundowners? It is Deleuzian. Perhaps this is a name I should know better to evoke. Perhaps I should be past it. But perhaps again, it is my own experience of mental illness through family that it sticks, that allows space to it to make sense. While cut short, Seeley did a fantastic job of blurring the lines between the real, imagined and heroic. Where "reality" ends and where the psychoses of the characters begins is never strongly enforced and allows the reader to come to his/her own conclusions about the ethics, morality and sanity of comic book heroes.

Sundowners concludes at issue eleven. Which is unfortunate, because although Seeley does manage to tie up the major plot points there were a number of stories that deserved unpacking and greater exploration. Still, a satisfying, refreshing and for this jaded reader, rejuvenating superhero title.

Monday, 2 November 2015

Make no mistake. I’m older. We all are. I’ve
been actively, consciously seeking out new music to excite me for twenty-five
years. It has been an expensive habit. CDs used to cost $30 each. I’ve bought,
sold, owned, rented and even accidentally stolen hundreds of them. Then there
are all the records still in the boxes they were stuffed into for an aborted
migration to Australia… over two years ago. Still unmentioned are the hundreds
and thousands of individual audio files obtained thanks to file sharing.

Since I first started this, a lot has
changed. As physical media gave way to owned digital media which has given way
to streaming the amount of available music has grown as explosively as its
monetary value has diminished. A vast collection of music, even within the most
jealously guarded, narrowly defined genre ghettos is available within moments
of committing to a keyword search.

With very few exceptions (and thankfully
they do still occasionally appear), I can
own it all. I can hear it all. The
only obstacles are science: biology and physics. There are only so many hours a
day that I can stay awake. Only so many minutes I can commit to listening.

The inevitable outcome is that anytime I am
presented with an opportunity to listen, I face a deep existential problem:
reflection or exploration? Listen to something old, for memory’s sake, for
nostalgia, for deepening, for resonance or listen to something new, for
excitement, titillation and the potential to add to the list that defines me
musically. Naturally, had I the time, then the question would not have the
weight it does. Nevertheless, this problem lies at the heart of my daily listening
and more often than not is resolved as I fall asleep with headphones on at the
end of another long day.

Where once I had clear musical “roots”, now
my location stretches to the horizon. What had been a small, neat garden has
been replaced by an unruly and ultimately unknowable forest. Although I
maintain a degree of lament for this change, as in a real forest, walking,
watching, noticing, reflecting… all of these activities connect me to a wider
whole. I suppose that what lies at the crux of the earlier question is a
persistent, low-level angst that at any one time in the forest, I can only know
what is immediately around me. And that in a finite temporal stream, both the
desire to know and the desire to return, both tradition and hope are simultaneously
bi-directional and proportionate.

Which leaves me to lead to a single
conclusion. Admit the angst and just keep movin’.

Tuesday, 13 October 2015

A disclaimer, the “behind the scenes” for
the transformation of this site continue to develop, much slower than
anticipated, though still steady. Programing is complex, brainy stuff for a non-programmer.
The upside to this is that it makes me use my brain, particularly logic
(especially troubleshooting/debugging) and math skills at a level not
experienced in years.

I once lived alone in a small old house on
a hill just a short walk from my university. It was lonely and expensive but
the surplus of time allowed me to enjoy music at a pace I rarely have time for
any more.

“Elephant Riders” was my first Clutch song.
It was buried on the Roadrunner Records label sampler Sweating Bullets. The hard rock swagger and funky groove caught my
attention but it was the lyrics that won me over:

On
Our Way To Washington Where Work Is Done By Men With Gavels,
I Heard A Sound That Just About Removed Me From My Filly's Saddle.
Just Outside Of Antietam, Where Once There Was A Mighty Battle,
I Heard The Rhythm Of The Hammers Beating The Rail Lines Together.

With or without the music, Neil Fallon’s
lyrics stand alone. Over time, he has become my favorite poet, just behind
William Blake. He draws on a deep well of fantastical American imagery,
mythology, history and stream of conscious. His is not the work of mopey, “traditional”,
post-ironic appropriation of Americana. It is something deeper, more ambiguous
and powerfully evocative.

Take the psyche-blues set to science
fiction of “The Rapture of Riddley Walker” (From
Beale Street to Oblivion):

Went
to the doctor, to see what could be given.
He said, "Sorry, but you've got to do your own livin'."
Went to the pastor, to hear what he would say.
He said, "Sorry, son, come back later some time after judgment day."
There is no safe way out of here. No passage below the dungeon.
No mother ship will save you. So goes the rapture of Riddley Walker.

There are few lyrics as powerfully evocative
of the decay of the American empire (a recurring theme for Fallon) as in “The
Amazing Kreskin” from Strange Cousins
from the West:

In
the raining park the chessmen play,
The faithful atheists refuse to pray,
The steam-works weep, the addicts do not care,
Crowd of cold people stand by and stare

The garbage eaters, their many retainers
Come to collect all the foul remainders
The smoke hangs heavy, the wrecking ball swings
In the clockwork of a collapsing thing

Of course, there is the wonderfully
refreshing take on the raging Clutch of old on “D.C. Sound Attack”, off of Earth Rocker:

The
optics of it are not important.
The public don't give a damn.
I see you're in need of consultation now.
Everybody needs a sinister hand.

Naturally no sympathizer.
I'm a war monger, baby.
Gonna industrialize ya.
Trouble I love.
Peace I do despise.
I'm a war monger, baby.
I got blood in my eyes and I'm looking at you!

Psychic
Warfare is Clutch’s attempt to make re-distill and
blend into a fine liquor the best of everything they have done over the three preceding
albums. The reconstruction of simple blues formula on From Beale Street to Oblivion, the blatant, over the top psychedelia
of Strange Cousins from the West, and
the return to hard rock primitivism on Earth
Rocker are refined and combined to create compositions that are distinctly
Clutch yet new, energetic, playful and original. This is a band who could break
the fourth wall and wink at their audience. But their meta is far too clever: “we
know we could wink at you, but we won’t cos we respect you, but here are a few
clues…”. Psychic Warfare is
everything that Clutch did and continue to do well. It is respectful of its adopted
musical traditions but it is also daring and bold. In other words, it is splendid.

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

The other day, I started reading Treme Stories and Recipes, a cookbook born of the HBO series Treme. As I metaphorically leafed through the digital "pages", I noticed that each of the introductory pieces was well written.

Well written.

Which is to say that descriptive passages featured clear, creative descriptions, economical use of words, avoided repetition and "meme speak" (what we old timers called cliches) and skillful metaphors relying on evocation, implication and imagination rather than spelling it all out.

I read fast. I read a lot. I wish I read more print. In my youth finding a typo, spelling mistake or other grammatical error in print was a big event. "Gotcha! How did no one see this? I reckon I'll write a letter to the editor."

In the present era of ultra brief news cycles, getting content to "front page" as soon as possible is the main goal of the media. Mistakes of all kinds are extremely common. Frequent factual errors and correction trails are found often.

Then there is the "culture" of contemporary writing. Modern writing is built on the maxim: hyperbole is necessity. The type of dueling language popular among the youth, at first found in comments, then social media, have been folded into current stylistic standards.

The result is verbosity, fragmented often conflicting metaphors and unreflexive parroting of niche language as though it is universal. In small doses, in specific contexts, this type of writing is fun. It can be a joyous celebration of linguistic excess. The problem, however, is that excess has become the norm.

Monday, 20 October 2014

No one type in Japan earns as much discombobulated
Gaijin ire as the Salaryman (sarariman). Salarymen are frequently
referred to as uncreative, mindless, drones, grunts, alcoholic, misogynist and
all that is wrong with Japan. Perhaps there is some measure of truth to these
observations. But before we go there, let us shine a light on social-cultural
context of the gaijin casting such aspersion in an attempt to understand the
behind-the-scenes "how" and "why".

First though, let me be clear about my terminology.
I use gaijin as a mildly offensive insult. As you likely know, gaijin
is an abbreviation of gaikokujin, "foreigner". Most urban
Japanese understand that the contracted version is somewhat abrasive but still
use it. In every day conversation, the word is not quite a "nigger",
"gringo" or "beaner" but nor is it completely inoffensive.
In the right/wrong hands, however, it does become a derogatory term.

My usage is somewhat more specific. In my context, gaijin
refers to a stereotypical, willfully ignorant, Anglo-colonial steeped in
internet lore on Japan, lacking Japanese language skills, Japanese peers,
friends or community and who feels a strong sense of "us versus
them". The gaijin is a type of cultural chauvanist, primarily
though not exclusively in his early to mid twenties, s/he is always
right, Japan is always wrong, his/her country is the epitome of democracy,
human rights and social justice and Japan is a racist hotbed of extremism, thought
control and repression.

Sigh. This would not be so depressing if it were
not so common.

So gaijin hate salarymen. But why? To me, the
salaryman represents everything that the gaijin cannot and will not ever be. As
an outsider, suddenly injected into Japanese society the gaijin lacks
the educational and social context that his same age peers share. Certainly
that is a disadvantage but it is not unique. While the sane viewpoint might be
for one to work hard at integrating into the community, establishing
friendships and other meaningful relationships, the gaijin scorns these
connections as merely obligatory, lacking the organic roots of his/her own
experience of community building...

Which took place in another country and to
which s/he is no longer a part...

Irony much?

But for what other reasons does the gaijin
hate those besuited office workers? The gaijin, frequently resentful as
a result of ongoing culture shock, a lack of language and social skills and
limited employment prospects finds him/herself positioned in a field with
little prestige or vertical movement. This is not inherently negative, everyone
has to earn a living and not everyone is ambitious. Some people just want to
pay the rent, have enough food and have something to do everyday. But for the gaijin
the salaryman's world is so foreign, governed by obscure sempai/kouhai
(senior/junior) rules, mandatory parties, inefficiency, subservience and...
sometimes... good pay and twice yearly bonuses. Politics of envy, perhaps?

Next comes the gaijin assertion that
salarymen are uniform drones, they all dress the same, have the same haircut
and abide by corporate dress policies. There are two problems with this: first,
have you ever seen how gaijin dress?

Yeah, that's right, fish out of
water, often over-sized, no-currency foreign brand names two years, too late.
Have you seen the shoulder pads, mis-matched shirts and ties... have you seen
the "hilarious" gag ties, tank tops in late Autumn and sunglasses on
subways? I have. And so have the salarymen. Be careful to notice that the
object of laughter may well be capable of subjecthood, in spite of being
Japanese...

The second problem is that gaijin aside from
lack of linguistic proficiency also tend to be context blind. A black suited
salaryman is a black suited salaryman, right? Look again. Did you notice the
angle of the cuts, the fabric type, thickness, durability? Did you have a close
look at the stitching on the shirt, the weave, the pattern? Did you notice that
all check is not created equal. Can you distinguish between this and last
year's check? See overstated the entry level brand name watch on that guy? New
to money. See the well made, understated, subtle elegance of the smart phone
cover that guy is using? He has been at this a while.

But the gaijin sees none of this. Even
within salarymen there is more diversity than the black suit. Many smaller
companies or specific branches of larger companies encourage more creative
dress styles as they try to create an image of desirability a means of attracting
new recruits. Gaijin frequently do not know how to intperpret such data
and assume such salarymen are freaks, hosts or something else other than
what they are.

Foreigners in Japan don't have to be gaijin.
The first step to giving up gaijin sensibility starts with questioning not only
stereotypes but the propensity toward adopting them as valid knowledges. Stay
tuned, more on the way.